雙語·當呼吸化為空氣 我們緊緊擁抱著彼此

我草草瀏覽著眼前這些CT片子，診斷結果顯而易見：肺上布滿了數(shù)不清的腫瘤，脊柱變形，一整片肺葉被侵蝕。這是癌癥，而且已經(jīng)擴散得很厲害了。我是一名神經(jīng)外科住院醫(yī)生，這是我接受培訓的最后一年。過去六年來，我已經(jīng)看過幾十套這樣的片子，每次都懷著微茫的希望，想幫患者找到某種可能有效的療法。但眼前這套片子不同：患者是我自己。
I flipped through the CT scan images, the diagnosis obvious: the lungs were matted with innumerable tumors, the spine deformed, a full lobe of the liver obliterated. Cancer, widely disseminated. I was a neurosurgical resident entering my final year of training. Over the last six years, I’d examined scores of such scans, on the off chance that some procedure might benefit the patient. But this scan was different: it was my own.

我身上穿的不是防輻射的工作服，也不是手術服或白大褂。我穿著一身病服，和一根輸液管“血脈相連”。護士把電腦留在我病房里了。我和妻子露西一起看著上面的片子。她是一名內科醫(yī)生，現(xiàn)在就守在我身邊。我一個斷層一個斷層地又看了一遍：肺窗、骨窗、肝窗，從上到下，從左到右，再從前到后，這是培訓的“標準動作”，好像我能有什么意外發(fā)現(xiàn)，能改變診斷結果。
I wasn’t in the radiology suite, wearing my scrubs and white coat. I was dressed in a patient’s gown, tethered to an IV pole, using the computer the nurse had left in my hospital room, with my wife, Lucy, an internist, at my side. I went through each sequence again: the lung window, the bone window, the liver window, scrolling from top to bottom, then left to right, then front to back, just as I had been trained to do, as if I might find something that would change the diagnosis.

我和露西一起躺在病床上。
We lay together on the hospital bed.

她輕聲開了口，像是在念臺詞：“你覺得有沒有可能，是別的??？”
Lucy, quietly, as if reading from a script: “Do you think there’s any possibility that it’s something else?”

“沒有。”我說。
“No,” I said.

我們緊緊擁抱著彼此，就像年輕的情侶。過去這一年，我倆都懷疑過我得了癌癥，但一直拒絕相信，甚至都沒聊過這件事。
We held each other tightly, like young lovers. In the past year we’d both suspected, but refused to believe, or even discuss, that a cancer was growing inside me.